Jackson's words were
proven correct once our sir took an immediate notice of how limp and
lifeless O'Neil's body had become. He released his hold on her
instantly as her body fell to the floor with little but a thud.
Jackson ran to her side and began to check her vitals and injuries
while our sir slowly began to back away into the corner of the room
and curl into a shivering ball. Without a word, Jackson started to
give O'Neil CPR in an attempt to resuscitate her. After a few
moments, O'Neil gasped and began to cough, tears rushing out the
corners of her eyes as the color flooded back into her face. During
this time, our sir had begun to whimper and shake uncontrollably
while uttering 'No no no no no...' to himself in a guilt laden
mantra. After ensuring that O'Neil was lying down and not risking
further injury, Jackson turned to our sir and began to speak, but his
words did not reach him. Our sir had inadvertently opened a doorway
back into another time and place, one in which his past sins now
stared back at him from a violent history and were only exacerbated
by the shattered visions of the pain inflicted on himself from
countless experiments and surgeries. As this horrifying anthem built
towards its crescendo, Jackson uttered a single word, a name
actually. It broke our sir's delusions like waves crashing on a rocky
shore as the nightmares receded back into the abyss of his mind.
“CROSS!” Jackson had
screamed. Our sir locked eyes with Jackson immediately. “That's
your name right? Your file said it was what you wanted to be called.
Your name is Cross, right?” Jackson continued. “Y-yes, I am
Cross. She gave me that name.” Our sir responded. “And who gave
you that name?” Jackson said, attempting to put all of our sir's
attention on himself. “The good doctor... She gave everyone a
number, but not me. She called me 'X.' I hated it. It made me feel
like a failure, that I was broken. So she called me 'Cross' instead.
It made me happy.” Our sir explained. “Cross, look. She's alive.
She is going to live. Do you know why?” Jackson said, knowing the
end was near. 'Cross' was now in the perfect position to understand
his plight and would see the situation in a manner that benefited
them both. He was, however, guilty over the fact that O'Neil would
need to be hospitalized. It was surreal what he had done to her in a
only few short moments without even trying. Jackson had spent a small
amount of time serving in the armed forces as an assistant to a field
medic, so he damn well understood the trouble O'Neil was really in.
The force that Cross had grabbed her with was enough to dislocate her
left shoulder, break her collar bone, and give her a whip lash.
'Jesus,' he thought, she might as well been hit by a car. On top of
that, her wind pipe was damaged and she might need assisted breathing
if it continued to swell. Having Cross help them was the only way.
How else did they hope to deal with these 'monsters' without one to
fight back. Fire with fire one might say. Still, it was terrifying
that something like this even existed, but his concerns would have to
wait, O'Neil needed a doctor and Cross needed to walk out of that
door with him, as a friend.
Cross continued to look
between Jackson and O'Neil, puzzled by Jackson's last question.
Jackson then answered for him. “It's because you have a heart,
Cross. You stopped the moment you realized that her death might be on
your hands. We don't need a killer, we need someone who knows when
enough is enough. I know your hurting, I know your messed up. But it
isn't your fault, and you can make yourself whole again. You just
have to help us, and I promise we will help you.” Cross' eyes
swelled with tears as the very idea that he could find relief for his
pain filled him with so much promise and doubt all at once that it
felt as though his stomach would rocket into his chest. Crying, he
looked at Jackson and said, “Please... Don't make me do this.” “I
can't make you do anything, Cross. But you know what the right thing
to do is. You have to help us, not because we need you, but because
if you really want the pain the stop, you have to face your past.
Face it Cross, and find the strength to live above your demons.”
said Jackson as he extended his hand.
There was so much
strength in Jackson's words, Cross thought. To him, Jackson was an
optimistic beacon of light that held the promise of a better
tomorrow. Whether this was a mere fantasy of not, Cross could not
help himself, and like a moth to a flame, he reached out and grabbed
hold of that light.
Moments earlier, outside
of the tiny confines where this drama had played out, the tension was
never uplifted, not even for a moment. Outside of the room that Cross
had been held in, was a fully armed combat unit equipped with an
array of shotguns, pistols, and riot shields. Their weapons aimed at
the door and their nerves set on a hair's trigger. Without context,
it begs the question of why they were there. The obvious reasoning
could be that Jackson was not fully confident in his abilities to
keep Cross under control and needed a plan to ensure his cooperation.
Or, perhaps, Jackson was left unaware of this development and such
measures were put in place by someone else. Either way, this truth
will perhaps play some role yet.
The memory of taking
Jackson's hand was enough to pull Cross back to the present, back
into that dark pit that is quickly filling with rising water. It is
level with his chest, and should he decided to remain motionless, he
might as well resign himself to death. With a renewed vigor, Cross
confesses, “Now I remember. I'm here for myself. Everyone else is
just a bonus.” If you recall, Cross is not alone. The strange skull
like object is still only a few yards away from him but is slowly
sinking beneath the murky waters that steadily rise. Without
hesitation, it spoke back to Cross. “I'm
so happy for you buddy. That's great. Can we please get the fuck out
of here n-”
The skull's words are cut off by a loud bellowing scream that echoes
above them. Both of them know the owner well. After all, he was the
one that put them here. “WOLF!? WHERE ARE YOOOOOU!?” The voice is
sarcastic in tone and accented with a southern drawl as it makes a
mocking musical tune with its question. The skull is quick to
respond, “Asshole!
Little bitch still can't tell us apart!?” The
voice continues above them, echoing off the metal catwalks, still
mocking and growing impatient. “We were having such a nice chat,
Wolf. Don't you wanna finish catching up? I still have so much left
to 'say' you chicken shit!”
Cross'
strength recedes at the figure's words as they fill the air. He gazes
upwards to the skulking shadow overheard and questions his choices
once more. “Christ... My cover's blown so what's the point? Maybe
I'm meant to die h-” Cross' words are then interrupted by the
skull, “HEY! I
told you I'm not dying here! Remember why we chose 'Piranha' first?”
The
skull's words strike Cross hard. It was true that he had made the
decision to begin the operation here. To begin his ordeal with the
one member of his unit that he despised the most, subject 03, field
name: Riot Piranha. “Shut up! That's not fair!” Cross exclaims.
“Fair!? You
think 'Riot Piranha' gives a flying fuck about what's fair!? We
agreed, Cross. He was the first to go. We're doing a four count.”
The skull is right, Cross
knows that much. He is finding any excuse to not move forwards
despite his destiny literally looming above him this very moment. The
skull's declaration of a 'four count' is something very special to
the two of them. A process that is simple in both understanding and
execution but is also completely unique, sacred even. Cross glares
across the rising waters at the skull and makes his own declaration,
“... Fine. But I call the shots. We're doing this my way.”
“Stubborn ass... Deal. But if you can't handle him, then I'm
taking over. You've had plenty of chances. Got it?” The
skull demands in response. Cross nods in agreement and the two begin
as they had done many times long ago. “Good. Now, why do
we count to four, Cross?” The
skull asks. “Because we go one step farther than the rest.” Cross
answers. “That's what we want them to think. Why do we
'really' count to four?” A
pause, but Cross confesses, “Because it was 'her' number.”
“You're god damn right it was! Now then... One! Stand.”
the skull orders.
Cross
slowly rises to his feet as he breaths deeply and makes a long
exhalation, as if to purge his body from the overwhelming dread and
that plagues him. He looks to the skull, awaiting his next order.
“Two! Get over here and pick me up.” Cross
sloshes his way over to the skull as it finally sinks beneath the
dark surface. Cross thrusts his hand into the depths and retrieves
it. Pulling it from the abyss, we see clearly that this is no skull,
but a helmet, terrifying in appearance, the purpose of its design
never forgotten from even long ago. Cross holds it front of him,
gazing into its large bulbous green eyes. “Three... Put
me on.” the helmet demands in
a cold tone filled with malicious intent. Cross turns the helmet
around in his hands and raises it high above his head. He lowers it
down until it consumes his face and then locks an external jaw piece
that had hung at his side in place securing it. It connects with a
satisfying sound that signifies that two have become one, that a
warrior has been reborn.
A
thunderous crash occurs as a short and broad figure comes sailing
down onto one the metal walkways only a few feet above Cross. He
gazes upwards and their eyes meet. “There you are!” The figure
bellows. “Now, there's the face I know! Ain't that right, 'Stalker
Wolf'?” Piranha exclaims as he observes Cross' new visage. Cross
glares through his helmet up to Piranha and sees that he has changed
little. His equipment his new, but his helmet is the same as it was
long ago. The time and place is different, but to face him feels
nostalgic, and Cross hesitates. But then, the final order comes to
him. “Four! Kick his ass, Cross.” With
that, our fallen soldier becomes a legend once more and bares teeth
and claw against his opponent.
Now,
a bloody battle of betrayal, long overdue, is about to begin.
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